Hunger Persists
by Sekihara Tae
Summary: The more one feels hunger for other tastes and pleasures, the more this hunger persists. Post DoC story for the prompt "Cloud protecting Tifa". New and hopefully original villain, who needs - or at least wants - Cloud's cooperation.
1. Chapter 1

The Cetra had faded so far into the planet's history as to become demi-gods. Scraps of fable, tales passed down by word of mouth from generation to generation, painted them as incorruptible, their nomadic civilization near-utopian. In legend they were pure and perfect, valiantly striving to protect Gaia from the creature who would later be known as Jenova.

When they faded, dispersed and hidden among their human cousins, so too did many truths.

Even the Cetra knew greed and hatred. Even the Cetra could be seduced by questions and mysteries and untapped power. Science was anathema, yet how easy it was to fall when the planet herself gave you the answers you sought.

How foolish to think Jenova was the only threat the Cetra ever faced. Even moreso to believe a man like President Shinra could have hit upon mako energy without outside help.

* * *

Tifa remembered old Mrs. Groveby's homemade blackberry cordial, and an oddly gritty taste in her mouth. She remembered talking to Cloud on the phone, after he'd said goodnight to the children, and looking forward to the second, similar call he promised to make later. She remembered smiling at a vaguely familiar face as she sipped at her spritzer, before the face changed and the world tilted and her body was flooded with a distant sense of alarm – as if the fear and outrage belonged to someone else entirely. A foreign impulse blanketed her fight-or-flight response with unwanted calm, leaving her screaming silently as her mind struggled and her limbs capitulated.

She'd been drugged. The concept was clear and bright when it came, rising unbidden from the morass of her thoughts to grant her some semblance of order. It was bizarrely comforting to know that her inability to control her muscles and the vagueness of her thoughts was due to an outside influence. Shortly thereafter she managed to orient herself enough to know she reclined, boneless, on some sort of cot; but it took her staring eyes registering a checkerboard linoleum floor before the realization that she'd been kidnaped began filtering through her stupor. Worry for Denzel and Marlene struggled futilely to rise and was suppressed by the soporific in her veins.

"What's wrong with her?" the voice behind the demand was gruff, the tone angry and a bit frightened.

"It's just the Sand," came the cool response, "in some, it causes a reaction similar to mako poisoning. Disorientation, trouble thinking, loss of motor control. She'll get over it in a day or so." The new speaker managed to sound clinically detached and avidly fascinated at the same time.

It reminded Tifa of Hojo, sparking another failed rush of adrenalin. Her efforts to move resulted in a single flailing clench of her fingers.

"You never said anything about mako poisoning, Gethin!"

"Yes, well... I never said you could keep her, either, yet you assumed that would be the case." Cool fingers stroked her hair away from her face, the touch soothing and reminding her of nothing so much as Aerith, yet the comfort was subtly wrong. Somehow... greedy. Stingy. "You're perfectly safe, my dear," the detached voice assured her, "I need you whole if he's to cooperate."

Briefly she wondered if 'he' referred to the gruff voice, but the thought wouldn't hold. "Cloud," she whispered, knowing she was right even before the soft, humorless laugh rang out.

"Very good. Now go to sleep," he instructed, as his long, spidery fingers stroked over her eyelids, closing them, "you'll feel better when you wake up." He chuckled again, the sound cold, lacking even Hojo's mad passion. "Well, probably." A shift in the air marked his movements as he turned to the other man. "Your services will no longer be necessary, Nate," the words were lazy yet commanding. Dismissive.

"But–!"

"Spare me your protests, you've already been paid." In the face of Nate's anger, Gethin's was flatly uninterested. Bored. "Get out."

There was a pause, and Tifa waited for the violence she sensed in the room to peak and erupt. Instead, Nate cursed, and then stalked across the room.

"As much as he hates Strife," Gethin confided, after the echoes of Nate's footsteps had faded, and a distant door had slammed, "he hates me more. Strife ignores him, but I used him." Another soft, coldly amused chuckle sounded. "He'll make sure Strife knows where to find me, and then the real work can begin."

Her own thoughts were far too tangled to make sense of his, but one fact Tifa grasped firmly: she was bait. "Bastard," she managed, flinching at the way it escaped no more vehemently than a sigh.

"Yes, yes indeed," Gethin responded, unperturbed. "But my parentage is of no import. Go to sleep, Miss Lockhart. If you're lucky, your hero will be here when you wake."

As if that foreign impulse in her system took his words as an order, weariness rose in a black wall around her thoughts and collapsed upon her, forcing her into dreams.

* * *

Cloud sat on his bed in the inn in Kalm, fresh from the shower and free of mud for the first time since he'd left home. He'd called to tell the kids goodnight a few hours before, briefly speaking with Tifa afterward and promising to call again once he was settled. Pressing the speed dial, he listened to the distant ringing and waited expectantly for her to pick up. After the fifth ring he cancelled the call, and then tried again – although why, when the memory feature couldn't mis-dial, he wasn't sure. Reflex, he supposed. Again the bar phone rang repeatedly without answer. Frowning, he glanced at the clock. It was later than she usually closed, but it was possible the cleaning up had taken more time tonight. It happened on occasion. Maybe she was in the shower; he'd wait thirty minutes and try again.

But thirty minutes later the phone still rang without response. Growing worried, he tried the line in his office, letting it ring a dozen times before hanging up. Standing, he began to pace, telling himself he was getting anxious over nothing. Ever since Tifa had been hurt so badly in the fight with Deepground, he'd found himself pondering worst-case scenarios anytime he couldn't get in touch with her. It was embarrassing, especially since she liked to tease him about it. He shook his head, as if the motion could rid him of his unease. Tifa and the kids were probably just asleep. If they were exhausted enough, Denzel and Marlene could sleep through Barret and Yuffie arguing at high volume. Never mind that Tifa was a light sleeper, and had sounded wide awake when they spoke before.

Such platitudes allowed him to hold off calling again for a full five minutes. The bar phone once more went unanswered, but someone picked up after the eighth ring when he tried his office a second time.

"Strife deliv'ry service," Denzel mumbled, pausing to yawn halfway through.

Cloud relaxed, sorry to have woken the little boy, but relieved to hear his voice, just the same. "I'm sorry I woke you, Denzel," he said, interrupting the confused spiel the boy was reciting by rote, "I was trying to reach Tifa."

"Cloud!" as usual, Denzel perked up at the sound of his hero-cum-father's voice, sounding slightly more awake. "I think she's still downstairs," he answered, "the lights are on." He broke into another face-cracking yawn, giving Cloud time to assimilate what he'd said. "Want me to get her?"

Something was decidedly unusual, and the last thing he wanted was Denzel or Marlene blundering into trouble. "No, that's alright, Denzel," Cloud responded, keeping his tone light and unworried. "Just go back to bed. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

Still mostly asleep, the boy agreed willingly. "G'night, Cloud."

The instant the call disconnected, Cloud was punching in a new number. "Reeve? I need you to send someone around to Seventh Heaven." He paused to let the other man speak, still pacing, his motions increasingly more agitated and purposeful. "Maybe nothing. The kids are fine, but Tifa's not answering, and Denzel doesn't know where she is." One hand went to the back of his neck, rubbed to release tension. "Things were fine a few hours ago, and she was expecting my call. Can you just... thanks."

The WRO had a peace-keeping office in Edge; it shouldn't take long for someone to stop over at the bar. With luck, it would be something silly – like the time the kids managed to lock her out before going to bed, and he found her sound asleep on the porch. Forcing himself to relax, he pulled out the docket of deliveries and scheduled pick-ups he would have to attend to tomorrow. Heavy rains – of a type unseen for the last eight to ten years – had turned the roads around Midgar to mud, making travel difficult. The right kind of chocobo could travel the mud slides as if they were stable asphalt, but any man-made vehicle bigger than Fenrir was liable to get stuck. As a result, he had at least twenty small parcels to deliver, and an equally large number of return shipments to Edge.

Paperwork distracted him for twenty minutes, pacing occupied the next twenty-five. When his phone rang, he answered before the first trilling peal had completed. "Reeve?"

In his office in the WRO headquarters, Reeve sighed, reluctant to tell the younger man what his officers had found. Cloud was protective of all his friends, but with his family, he took every injury almost personally. It was probably best to be blunt. "Tifa is missing, Cloud."

"Missing?" Cloud stilled, voice and body tight.

"My men found the door unlocked, and the lights on, but Tifa wasn't there. No real signs of a fight, although there's a spilled drink on the counter and a bus box knocked over on the floor." When the information was greeted with silence, Reeve continued, "Both Denzel and Marlene are still in bed asleep, and seem fine. I've called Barret to come keep an eye on things until you can get back."

"That's good," came the response, the younger man's voice sounding distracted.

"Cloud?"

"Give me a minute, Reeve." Eyes closed, Cloud was running over his last conversation with Tifa, trying to remember every detail she'd mentioned, and to focus on the ambient sounds that had carried over the phone. "The bar was almost empty when I spoke to her earlier," he explained, as he searched his memories, "her only customers were a young couple on their first date – or so she thought – and a construction worker." He sought for a name, knowing he'd recognized the voice: deep, gruff, and vaguely disgruntled. "Nate. He's not a regular, exactly, but he's got a crush on Tifa that won't quit." Even in the midst of his worry, Cloud's annoyance was blatant, and Reeve felt his lips twitch with humor. "On the nights he stops by, Nate generally stays until closing. He might have seen something."

"I'll see if I can find him. Anything else?"

Tifa had been disappointed in the last bottle of blackberry cordial Mrs. Groveby had traded her. Something about the taste being rich, but grainy. _Like the poor dear forgot to strain it_, she'd said. Cloud cursed. "Look for a mostly full bottle of liqueur on the counter, Reeve," he said. "It should be small and rather ornate, the kind old-fashioned home brewers use. Test it and the spilled drink for Sand."

Sand was a new drug, one that had only become popular in the last few months. After an initial rush of disorientation – spells typically lasting no more than five minutes – users would experience lucid dreams in which they could speak and interact with the deceased. For a few hours, people could believe their lost loved ones were still with them. After geostigma and the wholesale massacres carried out by Deepground, there were a large number of people who wanted that kind of relief. The chance to say 'goodbye' or 'I love you' one more time.

For some, however, the initial disorientation didn't fade, but increased. The drug tended to hold those individuals in its grip for far longer, and the effects gradually worsened until the user became almost catatonic. The symptoms were nearly indistinguishable from mako poisoning. No one had yet died from using Sand, but those who fell ill often needed medical care to fully recover.

Either way, if someone had managed to slip Sand into Tifa's drink, it would have incapacitated her long enough to make kidnaping ridiculously easy.

"Shelke will see to it personally," Reeve promised, his deep voice suddenly tight with anxiety. Adverse reactions to Sand were more common in those who had experience with materia, or had been exposed to the lifestream. Tifa fell into both categories. "When will you be ready for pickup?" Cid was already prepping the Shera.

"Now," Cloud answered, his tone wry, "but I'll wait until Cid can get here."

"Understood."

As the call had progressed, Cloud had made his way around the room, gathering the few sparse belongings he'd removed from his pack. Folding his phone closed he pulled on a clean shirt, stuffed his feet into his boots, and was out the door. Taking a seat in the lobby where he could watch the sky out the window, he began calling the contact numbers on his docket, ignoring the lateness of the hour. Each disgruntled client was given the same message: an emergency situation had arisen, and if they wanted their package delivered or picked up, they'd best meet him before his ride made an appearance.

Tifa would have shaken her head at his brusque approach, but it was effective. _Delivery Boy_ was neither an impressive nor illustrious career choice, but despite his unassuming demeanor and job preference, people knew who he was. If Cloud Strife said it was an emergency, nobody wanted to be the one to delay him. It was far too likely to be a crisis of the life-or-death variety.

When the Shera's running lights brightened the sky, Cloud had disposed of all twenty parcels he'd arrived with, and picked up another ten to deliver in Edge – delivery date unspecified and definitely not guaranteed. He met Cid on the outskirts of town, the cargo hold open and waiting when he drove up. The pilot's voice echoed over the onboard intercom as Cloud killed Fenrir's engine.

"You ready?"

Nodding, Cloud raised his voice as a crewman obligingly slapped the button on the intercom. "Tifa's waiting. Let's mosey."


	2. Chapter 2

Cloud arrived home around nine in the morning, to find both Denzel and Marlene wide awake and waiting for him when he walked through the door. Marlene catapulted out of her seat to throw her arms around his neck, while Denzel launched himself across the space between them to wrap his around Cloud's waist. Over their heads, he shared a glance with Barret, the older man smiling just a little as he shook his head.

Barret would always be Marlene's 'Papa', but Cloud was... Cloud. A mix of older brother, father figure, and resident hero all in one. Even when the younger man was confused or uncertain, he had a way of making everyone else believe everything would be alright. And if he couldn't handle the problem alone - by virtue of mako-bright glares, pointed words, and massive swords - he could still be counted on to come up with a plan to pool their skills and get the job done. In a group composed of exceptional people, he was the leader. _Of course_ the kids were relieved to see him. So was Barret. Now it was only a matter of time before Tifa was back home, with them, where she belonged.

_No pressure, right Spiky? _Barret thought, and where once he might have felt resentment, now all he felt was an obscure sense of relief. He was definitely going to be part of the solution to this problem, but he wasn't responsible for coming up with their strategy.

"Mr. Tuesti sent officers to stay with us last night after you reported Tifa missing."

"You'll get her back, won't you Cloud?"

"I can't believe we didn't even hear it happen!"

Both children were chattering excitedly, but there was an extra note of guilt in Denzel's voice. A tone of hurt. Cloud put his hand on the boy's shoulder and just gazed at him quietly, and after a few heartbeats, Denzel broke.

"You knew! When you talked to me on the phone, you knew, and you just sent me back to _bed_!" The last word was filled with disgust and choked with anguish.

Setting Marlene on the floor, Cloud crouched down to face the eleven-year-old, blue eyes calm and expression compassionate. "No I didn't, Denzel," he quietly asserted. "I knew something was wrong, but I didn't know what. It could've been something as silly as the time you locked her out," and although the man's mouth curved a bit at the memory, the boy's expression remained sober, "or it could've been something more." Denzel remained unmoved and slightly mutinous. Cloud's hands flexed on his shoulders, rocking the boy gently back and forth on his feet, just once, for emphasis. "Something dangerous enough to take _Tifa_ out," he elaborated. "I didn't want you anywhere near the bar until I knew for certain what was going on." In all honesty, he would've liked to tell Denzel to lock the bedroom door when he went back to bed, but he knew it would've alarmed the child and resulted in a conversation much like the one they were having now.

"I... maybe I could've helped, though!" The protest was half-hearted, guilt fading in the face of the calm facts Cloud was relating.

"You did." Startled, Denzel raised his head from its bowed, sullen position. "Until you answered the phone, I couldn't decide whether or not something had happened to all of you, or if nothing was wrong and you were all just... sleeping really soundly." One hand released the child's shoulder to rub sheepishly over Cloud's nape – a familiar gesture that, to Barret's more discerning eye, appeared feigned, but which apparently convinced Denzel that the words were truth. "If you hadn't answered, I might not have called Reeve – Mr. Tuesti – to send someone over and check on things. You did help, Denzel."

Peering intently into Cloud's face, and reading the sincerity there, Denzel relaxed. Beside them, Marlene whispered, "Told you!" rather loudly, prompting Cloud to reach out and tousle her hair.

Standing, the two children scampering in his wake, Cloud moved to join Barret at the bar. "What's the plan, Spiky?"

Cloud paused, eyeing their under-aged company, and both kids took the hint. "C'mon, Marlene. Let's go change out of our pajamas," Denzel suggested. Given the early hour and their upset, Barret had allowed them to wait for news in their nightclothes, half hoping – despite how unlikely it was – that they might go back to sleep. Marlene nodded agreement, and the two vanished upstairs to their room.

"I got a call from Reeve about half an hour ago. Both the cordial and what was left in the glass tested positive for Sand," Cloud stated flatly once they were gone. "Shelke said the cordial was over-saturated to the point that the drug wasn't completely dissolved, and had formed a precipitate." Which meant it was very likely Tifa had been overdosed on the stuff.

"Damn!" Barret's voice was loud, the worry in it obvious. He made an effort to lower his volume when Cloud glared at him and then shifted his eyes to the ceiling in a pointed reminder that the kids would be able to hear any further outbursts. "That's not good! Tifa's already more likely to have a bad reaction, thanks to taking that spill in the lifestream, right?"

Cloud nodded, face stoic but eyes worried. It was no longer merely possible but probable that Tifa was in a catatonic state, unable to defend herself if she even realized it was necessary. He'd been wrestling with the possibility for hours; the certainty made him both sick and furious. Having had mako poisoning on two separate occasions, he knew the helpless feeling all too well: the inability to control his body or voice or thoughts, and being unable to understand or – sometimes – even perceive those around him. He couldn't stand the thought of Tifa in a similar condition. Worrying, however, wouldn't help... and there was one positive to knowing how much she'd been dosed. "Shelke is drawing up a timetable for withdrawal and recovery, working off the suspicion of how much Tifa ingested and the likelihood that she won't receive treatment. That'll give us a better idea of what kind of care she'll need when we find her. We'll be prepared." Small comfort, but it was all they had. He sighed, settling his weight on a barstool. "Reeve sent someone around to Mrs. Groveby's. I'm still waiting to hear how that went."

The room fell quiet, silently attesting to what both men felt: they hated waiting.

So they filled the time by filling their bellies, the meal serving as a nice distraction for all concerned. Barret, being a bit handier in the kitchen than Cloud, assembled scrambled eggs mixed with cheese and ham, while Cloud made toast and had the honor of washing up afterwards. The big man then took Denzel and Marlene to the local park for a few hours, in the hopes that it would keep the kids from worrying and himself from brooding.

Cloud was left alone to grow ever edgier as he waited for his phone to ring. It seemed to be all he'd done since first realizing something was wrong, and he was growing heartily weary of it. His body protested the inaction, even as his mind knew he needed an enemy – or at least the suspicion of one – before he could go on the offensive.

If he didn't hear something soon, though, he may decide to start his own manhunt, and his first target would be whoever was supplying Sand in Edge. The sheer amount used to drug Tifa would have cost a pretty penny; someone _somewhere _would remember such a large sale.

Eventually – thankfully before Cloud got too antsy – Reeve called to report that Mrs. Groveby was not only agreeable to answering any and all questions, but alarmed to hear what had happened. The liqueur she had remaining in her possession had already been willingly surrendered for testing.

Twenty minutes later Mrs. Groveby arrived, escorted by a gentleman of like age and trailed by an agent from the WRO. "Hello, Mr. Strife," said individual greeted him, holding out her hand, "I'm Detective Fiona Hayden. I specialize in kidnapings and missing persons." Fiona had auburn hair and a calm, no-nonsense demeanor with which Mrs. Groveby was obviously at ease. Cloud, although puzzled by a vague sense of recognition, found himself relaxing as well: Fiona would no doubt have an easier time than he getting answers without antagonizing the elderly woman.

Mrs. Groveby was short, with chubby limbs and a faintly pear-shaped torso. Cloud guessed her age to be around eighty years old or more. A cap of silvered white curls covered her head, and bright hazel eyes enlivened her cheerfully wrinkled face. Something about her fairly screamed 'grandmother', and adults and children alike were drawn to her, although whether it was the impression of age or the patient way she listened to others speak, Cloud couldn't say. She'd always struck him as open and empathetic. He'd never had occasion to approach her, but Tifa enjoyed visiting with her, and had asked her advice on how to deal with both Marlene and Denzel on more than one occasion. How she could be involved in a kidnapping attempt – much less a successful one – boggled the mind.

The man with her – whom she introduced with a girlish giggle as her fiancé – was almost exactly her opposite. Where she was short and plump and – as Marlene put it – huggable, he was tall and thin, his manner ascetic. Steel-gray hair was worn cropped close to his head, and he looked out at the world through deep-set dark brown eyes. His arms and legs were long and spindly, the joints prominent. Compared to Mrs. Groveby's friendly, outgoing air, he seemed positively drab in his serviceable suit.

The four of them moved to sit at the table closest to the front window, the elderly couple seated on the bench that ran the length of the bar, while Cloud and the detective sat across from them. To his dismay, Fiona's initial questions struck Cloud as irrelevant and unlikely to shed any light on Tifa's disappearance. It was only due to his trust in Reeve's judgement, and the other man's trust in the detective, that he swallowed his objections and simply observed. This was, after all, her area of expertise, and he knew enough to know that there were times when the direct approach – his approach – didn't have the desired result. That didn't change the fact that where he wanted to ask questions like: "Why did you drug Tifa?" and "Where are you keeping her?" the detective started by asking something far less pointed.

"Tell me, Mrs. Groveby, how long have you known Ms. Lockhart?"

"Oh," the elderly woman replied, drawing out the vowel in thought, "close to two years now, I think."

"And how did you meet?"

Mrs. Groveby laughed. "A friend of mine told me that there was a restaurant-bar in Edge where they had better dumplings than the ones I made from scratch! Of course, I had to taste that for myself!" She beamed at Cloud and nodded firmly. "My friend was right. Ever since, I've made a habit of coming in once a week for chicken and dumplings, and then going home to a clean kitchen with a full stomach."

Despite his worry, Cloud returned her smile with a small one of his own. Tifa's dumpling recipe was actually something she'd learned from _his_ mother. He was partial to them himself.

"Have you always bartered for your meals, instead of paying in gil?" Fiona's voice was friendly but focused, accepting the story at face value without betraying either amusement or annoyance.

"No, usually I pay in cash. But I enjoy making and canning my own preserves and such, and I have a particular fondness for blackberries. My fingers end up stained for several days afterwards, and Tifa – Ms. Lockhart – noticed. When I explained, she asked if she could buy some."

"Cordial?" Fiona cocked her head in question. Liqueurs in general were a bit high-brow for a place like Seventh Heaven, and it had struck her as an odd arrangement when Reeve gave her the bare details of the case.

"Not at first. She was actually far more interested in my preserves," Mrs. Groveby explained placidly. "She thought the children would enjoy them. Now, I trade her at least one jar out of every batch I make." The underlying note of pride was unmistakable.

"I'm sure they do enjoy them," the detective agreed, smiling. "So when did you start trading the cordial as well?"

The next hour continued in much the same vein, with the detective asking question after question, smoothly guiding the conversation, and Mrs. Groveby chattering amiably in response. Almost against his will, Cloud was impressed. Fiona had an easy, approachable manner, and was obviously well-trained in her job. Her questions were both tactful and insightful, and covered things Cloud wasn't sure he would have thought to inquire about on his own – such as whether or not Mrs. Groveby had any reason to hold a grudge against AVALANCHE, or had ties to anyone who did. And she did it all indirectly; only someone knowing what she was looking for would realize what she was doing. In the end, however, the effort proved uninformative. The elderly woman seemed to have nothing to hide, and no motive for wanting Tifa to disappear. Add to that the fact that Shelke called halfway through the interview to say that the remaining cordial tested negative, and the mystery only grew. Besides, Cloud's gut told him that Mrs. Groveby was as innocent as she seemed. Someone had used her to hurt Tifa, and that thought just made the anger inside him burn hotter.

There were no answers, only more questions.

As Fiona finished making a list of all the other people Mrs. Groveby had traded with recently – she did a fair amount of business around town bartering her preserves and cordials for various goods and services – the elderly woman surprised Cloud by reaching out to pat his hand.

"You'll find her," she promised earnestly, "I know you will. Mr. Tuesti said you reported her missing less than an hour after she was taken!" She patted his hand again. "I doubt whoever did this expected you to discover it so quickly. You'll find her."

"Indeed." Beside her, the man stirred and spoke for the first time, his voice far more substantial than Cloud expected given his frame. A light, smooth tenor, rather than a reedy quaver. "It's nothing short of amazing that you were able to deduce something was wrong, simply by her failure to answer the phone." The tone was urbane and the words complimentary, but the feel was somehow... off. The sentiment behind them missing, or bitter, as if they were offered solely for appearance's sake. "You must be very close," he added, when Cloud failed to respond, and with that simple phrase his attitude suddenly made sense. Apparently, he didn't approve of the relationship Cloud and Tifa shared, which was not unusual among those individuals old enough to be their grandparents.

"We are," Cloud agreed, simply.

"Well, I'm sure you'll be with her again soon." As he spoke, he helped Mrs. Groveby to her feet, Detective Hayden having indicated they were free to go.

"Thank you, Mr...?" Cloud hesitated, realizing the man had never given his name.

Mrs. Groveby laughed, apologizing for the oversight. The man smiled, the curve of his lips sharp, as if he were amused by some joke to which only he was privy. "Onraet," he replied, offering his long-fingered hand for Cloud to shake. "Gethin Onraet. I'm very pleased to meet you."

Somehow, despite the note in his voice that Cloud took for disapproval, that statement rang with absolute truth.


	3. Chapter 3

Tifa wasn't certain if she was awake or asleep. She hoped it was the latter, for it was comforting to think she could dismiss what was happening to her as a bizarre dream.

Although her eyes were closed, she could clearly see the room she was in and the pattern on the coverlet upon which she lay. She could also smell the lemon oil that had been used to polish the piano, and hear the soft humming of the woman seated beside her, feel her hand stroking repeatedly over her long hair.

If she were dreaming, her surroundings had been dredged from deep in her memory and recreated with startlingly vivid detail. This was her room in Nibelheim, complete with childhood trappings and much beloved parental figure.

If she were awake, she must be going insane: her mother, the room, and even the town were all long gone.

The soft humming slowly faded away. "Hold on, Tifa," her mother said, her voice gentle and encouraging, and so _real_ that it brought tears to Tifa's eyes. "Your young man is coming." There was a hint of laughter in her tone, and a great deal of approval. "He's a bit ahead of schedule, actually. Gethin is in a snit over having to step up his plans." Long fingers brushed her bangs back, stroked over her forehead as if checking for fever. "So you have to hold on, and keep fighting." The fingers shifted to her shoulder, lifting her into a sitting position, her back supported by a mound of fluffy pillows. "Come on now. I've brought you some soup to help get your strength back."

Despite how surreal it all was – the room, her mother, knowing that none of it made sense – Tifa found herself allowing the older woman to help her eat, obediently opening her mouth for the waiting spoon. Common sense argued that the scenario was wrong, was skewed... but it _felt_ right. She believed her mother – whether dream or memory or drug-induced figment: Cloud was coming. He was even going to be _early_. That news eased some of the fear that had been ever-present since she awoke to find she'd been abducted. And so she ate, and then let herself drift off into deeper sleep. Around her, the room and her mother both slowly washed away in a tide of green.

In her cell in Gethin's compound, Tifa stared blankly at the wall, sightless eyes aglow with the telltale green of a _sand storm _– a brief mako surge produced as her body struggled to disperse the drug from her system. Such mental spells were common among those suffering from an overdose, and thus went unremarked by the teenager patiently spooning soup into the fighter's waiting mouth.

* * *

Nate was understandably alarmed to find two WRO peace keepers waiting outside his home, especially considering it had only been a matter of hours since Gethin had kicked him to the curb.

Someone certainly wasn't wasting any time.

He'd spent the night drinking at _The Underground _– a bar run out of a basement just inside the Midgar ruins. The clientele was rough and the alcohol just a shade away from paint thinner... but the bartender didn't ask questions or attempt to make friends, and every single patron specialized in being deaf, dumb, and blind. Which had suited him fine: an occasional bully rather than a professional thug, he was in way over his head, and had needed to disappear for awhile to figure out what to do next.

When the place closed around four in the morning, he had nothing to show for his efforts but a pounding headache and the certainty that staying in Edge after having participated in the kidnapping of Cloud Strife's lover would be hazardous to his health. Muzzily thinking he would pack a bag and then go _somewhere_ – even if it was just a hotel to buy himself some time to come up with a better plan – he headed home.

In his frustrated and inebriated state, it didn't even occur to him that he might not be the reason the officers were in the hallway of his apartment building. No, his immediate assumption was that his erstwhile partner had turned him in, disposing of his accomplice like so much trash.

Of course he tried to run.

Motions far from smooth, he swayed dangerously on his feet as he turned and stumbled away. They were on him before he'd made it more than a hundred paces, his drunken voice raised in protest as he struggled clumsily to escape.

"Commissioner Tuesti said to see if he knew anything?" one officer asked the other, and upon receiving a nod, broke into a grin. "I think it's safe to say he does."

"Yeah, but does it have anything to do with what we came here to ask, or has he been up to something else?"

Glancing down at their captive's sullen expression and glassy eyes, the first man could only shrug at his partner. "Dunno. Let's get him back to the office and sobered up, and see what he's got on his guilty conscience."

The drive itself seemed to have a fairly sobering effect, and the man they led into lockup was far more subdued than the one they'd forced into their car. By lunchtime, elixir-laced coffee had finished the job, and while his appearance was unkempt, his footsteps were steady when they escorted him into the interrogation room.

Looking up from the folder spread open on the table in front of him, Reeve watched as Nate settled into the seat opposite. This wasn't the situation either he or Cloud had anticipated: he knew Nate irritated the swordsman in a minor way virtually every time they met - much like a gnat or other buzzing insect - but there had been no suspicion in Cloud's tone when he'd suggested that his self-styled rival might have seen something useful. The fact remained, however, that innocent men didn't – usually – run from the peace keepers.

Now he had to choose whether to be confrontational or apologetic in his questioning. Considering that Nate wasn't really working with mastered materia (as Yuffie would have put it) either approach had a likelihood of getting the man to reveal more than intended. However... Nate was also overly belligerent and easy to antagonize; while anger would loosen his tongue, it would also result in a lot of blowhard chatter that would get them nowhere.

Best to continue as originally planned, and switch tactics as the situation warranted.

As the primary detective on the case, Fiona Hayden, settled in the seat beside him, Reeve let his features assume a conciliatory expression. "Mr. Kysely, I must apologize," he said with expert sincerity. "It seems some sort of mistake has been made, as it was never my intention to have you arrested."

Folding his arms and slouching in his chair, Nate scowled back. "What were the officers for, then?" he demanded, angry and suspicious.

"You mean no one told you?" Reeve asked, feigning surprise and distress. "One of Edge's most prominent citizens disappeared last night! As you are known to be a friend of the victim, we were first and foremost concerned that something might have happened to you as well – especially when there was no response at your home." Skillfully, with just a few sentences, he stroked the other man's ego and implied that the thought of Nate as having some part in Tifa's abduction was a non-issue.

Nate pondered that for a moment, his thoughts obviously moving in slow motion. Reeve shared a glance with Fiona as both noted the way the construction worker relaxed slightly, a faint, relieved smile flitting across his strong features. "I see," he responded finally, having adopted a wounded but forgiving tone. "I don't see why your officers felt the need to apprehend me, but – in light of your concerns, and your quick response in sending someone over – I will refrain from pressing charges."

Reeve sighed with exaggerated relief, while internally labeling the other man both a horrible actor and a first quality jackass.

"How long has Ti– um... this friend of mine been missing? Who is she?"

Fiona tucked her chin and shuffled the papers in front of her to disguise her amused satisfaction. "Since last night," she replied. "Shortly after the Seventh Heaven's normal closing time, Tifa Lockhart disappeared. We have very little information regarding what happened."

"Yes," chimed in Reeve, "which is the other reason the officers were waiting. We understand that – as a loyal and regular customer at Seventh Heaven – you often stay until closing. It was my hope that you might have seen something that could help us." Nate was already shaking his head, and Reeve held up a hand in a placating gesture. "It might have seemed unimportant at the time, such as an unfamiliar face...?" he prompted.

"This is horrible!" the other man exclaimed, leaning forward and bracing his hands on the table. "I can't believe anyone could..." he shook his head, obviously striving to pretend surprise, "I've seen Tifa hold her own against all comers." Shaking his head again, he ran a hand through his hair, the picture of frustrated worry. "Unfortunately, I can't help you. I'm sorry... but I wasn't at the Seventh Heaven last night."

"Really?" Fiona glanced up briefly to focus on Nate's face, and then glanced away, frowning. "Damn." Slumping in her seat – and doing a much better job of faking frustration – she began paging through her notes.

"Are you certain?" Reeve asked. "If you'll forgive my saying so, it was apparent from your state at the time of your... accidental arrest that you'd been drinking quite heavily."

Flushing, Nate nodded, albeit somewhat nervously. "Yes, you're right. It was a long day, and I had several errands after work. I didn't start drinking until Seventh Heaven had already closed." His feet shifted under the table, betraying additional discomfort with the current line of questioning.

"Ah, here it is," Fiona commented quietly, turning her notes toward Reeve (revealing an itemized list of the lies Nate had told so far), "I knew there had been a report filed."

"Yes, I see," Reeve agreed, moving the paper in front of himself as if to get a better look. "Are you certain of your facts Mr. Kysely? We have here a report from a very reliable witness, stating that you were in Seventh Heaven as late as twenty minutes before closing."

"Really?" Nate shifted uncomfortably again, "I'm afraid your witness is mistaken."

"No," Reeve answered, shaking his head and deciding to indulge in a little name dropping, "Cloud Strife is positive you were at Seventh Heaven last night."

Nate pushed himself away from the table almost violently, his chair scraping against the floor. "Strife?" he demanded, his jealousy for the swordsman loosening his tongue, "How could he witness anything? He wasn't even home last night!"

"And you would know that how?" Fiona asked coolly, pen poised as if to take down his answer.

He fumbled for a moment, opening and closing his mouth a few times before finding one. "I... I just assumed. Surely nobody would attempt an attack on Seventh Heaven if he were home...?"

"Hmmm," she responded, turning her attention back to the pad in front of her and jotting something down, much to Nate's anxious dismay.

"Be that as it may, Mr Kysely, Cloud Strife states that he could hear your voice in the background when he spoke to Ms. Lockhart on the phone. Perhaps you are unaware, but as a result of the experiments he was subjected to some years ago, Strife's senses have all been enhanced to the degree that we have no choice but to accept his report as factual." Which wasn't strictly speaking true – they were following up on the report more because it was _Cloud_ rather than due to any sort of standard procedure – but it sounded impressive and intimidating. "Do you have any explanation for why he would lie?"

As expected, Nate jumped at the dangled bait. "Strife has always been a suspicious and jealous man. Maybe he feels threatened by my friendship with Tifa."

"It is true that you have been involved in several small altercations with Mr. Strife," Fiona agreed, "however, our sources indicate that you are usually the one at fault. Ms. Lockhart has also reportedly asked you to leave the Seventh Heaven on more than one occasion." She again made a show of looking through her notes, tapping pen against paper as she pretended to read from a non-existent file: "I have here several complaints stating that you are both disruptive and prone to unwelcome advances." It wasn't exactly a lie – Tifa had made the 'complaints' herself, as part of general conversation the last time Reeve had stopped in for a drink.

"It sounds as if you aren't as friendly with Ms. Lockhart as we initially thought," Reeve stated, sitting back and folding his arms, gaze hard. "Your failure to correct that error calls the truth of all your subsequent statements into question – and I have to say, with such an important figure missing, it doesn't look good when innocent people lie. Would you like to start again from the beginning Mr Kysely?"

Off balance and palms sweating, Nate swallowed air in nervous gulps. "Fine, fine," he agreed, "I'm sorry, I just... okay, I was there last night. But I had nothing to do with her disappearance! I swear!"

"How late did you stay?" Fiona snapped the question.

"Until closing."

"Was anyone else in the bar?"

"There was a young couple. Barely more than kids. They left at closing, too."

"Would you recognize them if you saw them again?"

"I ... I don't know."

Reeve sat back to watch Fiona work. She was truly exceptional at her job, and with Nate already off-balance, the rapid-fire questions had his thoughts spinning trying to keep up. He was answering almost on automatic.

"How long were you there?"

"An hour, maybe...?"

"Did you speak with Ms. Lockhart?"

"Some. Mainly just to order my drink."

"What did you have?"

"Corel wine."

"Just the one?"

"Yeah."

"Did Ms. Lockhart have anything to drink?"

"She was making a spritzer when I arrived."

"Did she finish it?"

"No. She only had a little."

Reeve's eyebrows went up at that, and Fiona hesitated in her questioning for just a second. If Tifa had drunk less than they expected, it would indicate her reaction might be even more severe than they already feared. The fact that she'd passed out in the middle of bussing tables had already led them to believe that the drug had hit her hard and fast, with no preliminary dizziness or drowsiness. That, along with her lifestream exposure and experience with materia, were the reasons they were preparing to deal with overdose symptoms. However... if she hadn't actually imbibed much, Shelke would need to adjust her withdrawal time table.

"How much is a little?" Fiona pressed, "Two fingers? Half a glass?"

"I don't know... maybe a third? I don't know!"

"Alright," Reeve interrupted, making calming motions with his hands, "knowing she didn't finish her drink is very helpful." Nate relaxed a bit at that, offering them a relieved smile as he smoothed his hair back.

"Good," he said. "Is that all you need then?"

"Just a few more questions, Mr. Kysely," Fiona assured him, "and then we'll be through here." He nodded, obviously not catching on that being finished _here_ didn't necessarily mean he would be allowed to leave. "Did she have anything to eat?"

"No."

"Do you remember Mr. Strife's call?"

"Yeah," the answer was grudging.

"To whom were you speaking while Ms. Lockhart was on the phone?"

"Nobody." Both tone and expression had turned sullen.

"Nobody?" One auburn eyebrow arched skeptically.

"I was... teasing her about ignoring paying customers to talk to him."

_Complaining that she was ignoring you, you mean, _Fiona thought, but left it unvoiced. "When you were heading out, did you notice if she'd started clearing the tables yet?"

"Yeah. She always starts bussing the empties at last call."

"So it was business as usual?" He nodded. "And the couple that was there, did they leave immediately after last call?"

"Yeah."

"But you stayed to finish your drink?"

"Well... she was alone and it was late. I wanted to keep her company until she was ready to lock up." Nate's voice was falsely sincere, no doubt thinking that professing concern was as good as proclaiming his innocence.

Looking up from her notes, Fiona cocked her head at him. "So you watched her bus the tables?"

"The one the kids were at, yeah. The others were clear."

"And then you left immediately after?"

He hesitated, clearly starting to feel uncertain again. "After... after I finished my drink, yeah."

Fiona smiled. "That's very good to know," she said, "it helps our investigation immensely."

Nate smiled back, even as he wiped his hands on his work pants. "Does it? That's a relief. I don't want anything to happen to Tifa."

"Yes, this information is very helpful, Mr. Kysely," she replied, standing up to walk around to his side of the table. Once there, she propped her hip against the steel surface and leaned down into his personal space. "You see," she explained in a voice leached of its earlier friendliness, "you just admitted to being the last person to see Ms. Lockhart."

"What?" Eyes wide he made to stand, but her slim hand kept him planted in his seat. "No I didn't! I told you I had nothing to do with it!"

"You also said you watched her bus the last table, and kept her company afterward."

"So? What does that prove?"

"Her bus box was found on the floor near the bar. The dishes inside were broken, but it contained two plates, two beer glasses, and two sets of silverware – no doubt the remains of the couple's meal. An empty wine glass was on the bar, along with a spilled drink which the lab tells me is a white-wine spritzer. Piecing the evidence together, it appears that Ms. Lockhart passed out as she was returning the bus box to the kitchen, and knocked her drink over as she reached out, trying to keep from falling. Which means," Fiona concluded, "that if you finished your drink after she cleared that last table, then you were both the last person to see her, and very probably there when she passed out."

"Which also explains why you ran from the peace keepers," Reeve inserted into the silence following her summation, "which is a topic we have yet to address." He waved a hand at the file Fiona had been paging through for show. "While from all accounts you're not the best or friendliest of employees, your work history makes no mention of you operating machinery while under the influence, or appearing on site less than sober. Thus I gather that the inebriated state in which my officers found you is not customary. Care to explain why you would choose to drink yourself into a stupor on third-rate whiskey shortly after leaving the Seventh Heaven?"

Nate glanced from one set of determined features to the other, mind searching frantically for a cover story, even as he realized it was futile. It was the mix of lies he'd told that had tripped him up in the first place. That and his temper. Taking a deep breath, he met Reeve's gaze and nodded.

"I want your guarantee of protection," he said, tone emphatic.

"From your partner or partners?" Fiona asked, not in the least surprised to learn Nate hadn't acted alone.

He laughed, the sound mirthless and hollow. "No," he replied, placing shaking hands side-by-side on the table, the reality of his situation stripping away all bravado. "From Strife. He's been looking for an excuse to gut me for months, and now he has one. The fact that I was just the muscle in this operation, not the brains, won't stop him."

As if to prove his point, the door slammed open, revealing one icily furious Cloud Strife. He crossed the room in two strides, hoisting Nate out of his chair by the throat and slamming him into the mirrored wall behind him. "I've got a different deal for you," Cloud stated between clenched teeth, blue eyes gleaming with cold fire. "Tell me what you know, and I won't kill you right here."

"Cloud-"

"No, Reeve." The refusal was punctuated by a small shake of his head, those frighteningly intense eyes never leaving Nate's face. "I'm being perfectly reasonable. This little self-entitled bastard wanted Tifa, and wouldn't take no for an answer. Now he's gone to extremes to get her, putting her life in danger in the process."

"I wouldn't have hurt her!" Both hands wrapped around Cloud's forearm, feet flailing a few inches above the ground, Nate's outrage briefly overcame his fear, allowing him to find his voice.

"I'll let Detective Hayden explain all the ways in which you already have," Cloud told him, unmoved, "assuming you cooperate. Now: Where. Is. Tifa?" With each word he tightened his grip a bit more.

Pale and frantic, Nate gasped his answer.

"Gethin," he panted, "Gethin has her."


End file.
